


Breathless

by isnt_it_pretty



Series: Of Broken Hearts and Kindred Spirits [5]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chronic Pain, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Injury, M/M, Mercedes and Dorothea are good friends, Pain, Post-Traumatic Arthritis, Prescription Drug Use, Sylvain is a disaster okay?, being used as prescribed, mostly - Freeform, no beta we die like men, so is Caspar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 22:37:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20786198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isnt_it_pretty/pseuds/isnt_it_pretty
Summary: "Are you telling me," he says, watching his partner’s(?) sleeping form settle again, "that this idiot has chronic pain, and didn't say anything?"She laughs, "Are you surprised?""No," he replies with a sigh. "I'm really not."





	Breathless

**Author's Note:**

> Sylvain is terrible at taking care of himself!
> 
> Also, I'm gonna say this every fic. Feel free to hit me up on instagram (which I don't use but will reply to msges on) @isnt_it_pretty, twitter which is the exact same, or discord, the only thing I actually use, at Canadeath#1368  
Come on guys, I've already made a friend from somebody adding me. I just want people to cry over Sylvix with.
> 
> (And pst, if anybody talks about my work can you make sure to credit me? Thank Lovely <3)

Sylvain is pulled from blissful unconsciousness by pain.

It isn’t unusual, he’s in pain most of the time (it's his own fault anyways he often reminds himself), but some days are worse than others. Today is one of those.

He groans, trying to push himself up and failing. The pain, extreme as it is, is making him feel dizzy and nauseous. It’s a stabbing ache, radiating through his shoulder. The telltale sign of nerve pain burns down his arm and into his fingers. Half his hand burns, the other half is numb and tingling. Nerve roots, the doctor said. It’s paralyzing. Every breath sends white hot agony ripping through him.

He tries to close his hand into a fist, but he can’t. The nerves won’t respond to the command, won’t tell his muscles to contract.

Pain like this, uncommon but not unusual, leaves him breathless. It’s indescribable, the worst pain he ever remembers feeling. 

Reaching with his other arm, uncoordinated but working, he grasps for his phone. It's a single minded goal, just get the phone. Everything else can come after. At least he keeps it close by, charging on his bedside table.

He fumbles, trying to get his fingers to respond. It’s harder than he’d like to admit, but eventually he gets a solid hold on it.

The screen lights up in his hand, reading 6:27am. What day is it? He thinks he has class. He squints, reading the day of the week. Wednesday. Does he have class Wednesdays? It’s hard to focus on anything through the agony of his body. 

Stupid flesh vessel.

Usually, the pain is relatively controlled by a slight cocktail of drugs, all overlapping to make it livable. ‘It’ being his useless body.

He should take pain killers. There’s a bottle of naproxen next to his bed, somewhere. Really, days like today he should take his stronger stuff, but he  _ really _ doesn’t want to. It makes him feel floaty and itchy, not to mention how hard it is to get a fucking refill. He walks into his doctors office in a fucking shoulder brace and is still treated like a drug addict

The pills are in the top drawer of his dresser. He can’t swallow them without water, it’s a skill he never managed to master. Of course, his water bottle is empty. Fuck. There’s usually a plastic on nearby, but he can’t see it. Doesn't think he’d be able to open it anyways, probably can’t even open the drawer where the medication is, let alone open  _ that. _

Maybe he can just take fifteen advil, at least that bottle is on his night stand, considering he practically takes it daily.

Good God, Dorothea and Mercedes are going to kill him if he does that. Probably Felix too, at this rate. If he knew. He still hasn’t told him. 

Their relationship is... complex. More like “Its Complicated” than “In a Relationship”. They’re together, yeah. SInce that heated kiss three weeks ago, they’ve tried to sort things out. They’ve watched movies at his place, when Ingrid and Dimitri weren’t around, went to dinner a few times, and often hang out to study. But this is different. He hasn’t told Felix about the scars covered by his tattoos, doesn’t let his hands linger there too long when they kiss, although he suspects he knows anyways. He hasn’t told him about the brace he sometimes has to wear for his shoulder, just to stabilize it enough to calm down the pain (he hasn’t worn it around him, even if it hurts not to), or the arthritis and inflammation that causes enough pain to make him vomit . He especially hasn’t told him about the scars on his thigh, Felix’s name immortalized among them.

Fuck, it’s one of  _ those _ days. Bad pain is terrible enough, but bad mental health too? Doesn't look like he’ll be going to class after all - even if the pain numbs - with the way depression is settling over him like a slow filling bathtub. Not yet dangerous, but if he waits too long, he’ll start to drown.

He needs relief, something,  _ anything _ to make this all stop. To make it feel less like his body is protesting his very existence. 

Caspar is asleep in the bed across from him, but God knows he won’t be able to wake him up by calling out his name. Doesn’t even think he could say it if he tried.

Fuck it.

Using his good arm, Sylvain manages to throw a pillow across the room. It’s that, or try to text Mercedes. He doesn’t think he’d be able to make sense, but she’d probably get the point.

Wha-?” Caspar asks, rolling over. The poor guy, stays in their room and has to deal with Sylvain, stays with Linhardt, and has to deal with his fatigue. No escaping chronic shit for him.

He squints in the dimly lit room, grasping the pillow. It’s expensive. “Did you just throw a pillow at me?” He sounds offended.

Sylvain opens his mouth to talk, but he can’t seem to make words come out. His brain is too distracted tying to tell his body that no, it’s not fucking dying, and can it just chill for five minutes? Instead, he makes a pitiful noise, somewhere between a groan and a whine.

Caspar, God bless his fucking soul, is up immediately. 

He’s in a t-shirt and boxers, his short hair still somehow comes out a mess in the mornings.

“Bad day?”

Sylvain nods, forever thankful that he lucked out with his roommate first semester. Two years later and they still room together. Caspar may overreact at times, and be prone to irrationality and emotions, but damn if he isn’t a great friend.

Caspar doesn't respond, just grabs an empty water bottle, and leaves the room.

Sylvain tries to breathe, but as he has become more aware of the pain, he’s become less able to think clearly. It hurts so fucking much, as if his entire arm is burning with liquid fire, never ending agony.

Less than two minutes later, he’s handed a full water bottle. Caspar reaches into the drawer of his night table and pulls out a bottle of his prescription painkillers. He doesn’t take them often, there’s no point in taking intense painkillers when he’s in pain all the time. They are great for times like these though.

He takes two pills of naproxen. It’ll take about a half hour for it to work, but maybe he’ll be able to pass out again. Days like today he usually just sleeps. He’ll probably put his brace on later too, definitely will if he has to get up. Mercedes will probably bully him into it if she drops by. Well, when, more likely.

“You good?” Caspar asks.

Sylvain nods. He’s not good, not yet at least, but it’ll get there. He’ll take some Tylenol in a couple hours, and everything will be fine.

Caspar gets ready for class, tells him he’ll let Dorothea and Mercedes know. Text him if he needs anything, blah blah.

Sylvain absorbs very little of it, just waiting desperately for the relief that will come when the medication takes effect.

Only, it doesn’t.

An hour goes by and while its numbed a noticeable amount, it hasn’t lessened to a manageable level. So Sylvain does the only logical course of action. He takes three more naproxen.

Sometime later, he wakes up from his half asleep state to his door opening.

“Oh!” Mercedes says. She has her backpack across her shoulder. “I’m sorry Sylvain, I didn’t wake you did I?”

“No,” he replies. His voice is gravelly. It’s not fully a lie.

Mercedes frowns, and walks towards him. She drops her backpack with a thud (just how many textbooks is she carrying around?) and pulls a chair over from his desk, which honestly serves more as a shelf for his crap. The hoodies he has tossed on the chair are relocated to the floor.

She sits down next to him and hovers the back of her hand over his forehead. “May I?”

Sylvain nods and closes his eyes. Why is he so fucking tired?

Mercedes feels his forehead, cheek, and neck, before resting back with a hum. The touch feels pleasant, distracting. “You’re running a fever,” she notes. 

It isn’t unusual, he often gets fevers when he’s in pain like this. It’s more annoying than anything, considering it makes him feel even worse.

She asks if she can see his shoulder, and he makes a noise of acceptance. Talking is difficult, so is trying to focus on her words, so noises will have to suffice. Everything feels jumbled.

Mercedes uncovers his shoulder, which was hidden beneath his blanket. He doesn’t have to see it to know what it looks like, all swollen and inflammed. She presses on it slightly, not enough that would usually cause him pain. Still, Sylvain lets out an agonized cry.

“Fuck,” he whispers shockly close to tears, he throws his good arm over his eyes. His voice is shaking as he tries to get his breathing back to a manageable level.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him softly. “When did you last get a cortisone shot?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t know.”

“Sylvain,” he can hear the frown in her voice. At least she’s never been one to lecture him, even if she were he isn’t sure he could absorb it properly. “If you’re in this much pain, maybe you should see a doctor and get one.”

“I’m fine,” it’s a fucking lie and they both know it.

She sighs, but doesn’t press. After how long he spent in the hospital, he really tries to avoid going to doctors. “What have you taken?”

“Naproxen.”

He can imagine her frown deepening.

“Nothing stronger?”

“A lot of naproxen.” His good arm is still covering his eyes, which feels like some comfort. At least he can die fucking miserable.

He can hear her digging through his drawer. The sound of different bottles of pills are placed on his bedside table as she looks. 

“Here.” She hands him a bottle, and Sylvain doesn’t need to open his eyes to know what it is. 

He debates on refusing, but it hurts  _ so much. _ His brain is already fried anyways, may as well. 

Mercedes opens the lid when she holds it out to her, and hands him a pill. “You can have another in an hour if it doesn’t help,” she tells him. “And I’m calling your doctor to make an appointment for tomorrow.”

* * *

That bastard.

They agreed to meet for lunch. Sylvain had class in the morning but they were going to see each other after, but here he sits, an hour after the agreed meeting time.

Did he forget? Probably. Who fucking knows why Felix likes such an idiot.

Grumbling, he pays for the coffee he’d been drinking at the cafe, and packs up his things. He’s texted Sylvain three times, and called twice. No response to any of them.

He slings his backpack over his shoulder, ignoring the pain of it as he does so. He’s sore, carrying around two textbooks and a laptop will do that. Next semester he’s getting the fucking online copies, because fuck this.

The campus is busy around 2pm on a Wednesday. The science building is full of students doing labs, and on a warm day like today, the grass spaces are full of exhausted looking students trying to soak up as much sun as possible.    


Felix really didn’t see the appeal. Stupid sun, leaving stupid burns.

He wanders over to Sylvain’s building. If he isn’t there, maybe one of his friends will point him in the right direction. And then he can yell at him for standing him up.

Logically, he probably got busy with school work. He  _ is _ two years ahead in his program than Felix is in his own, but a text would have been nice. He could have gone home and napped, or even went straight to Sylvain’s dorm to join in studying.

Slipping into the building behind another student - nobody questioned him anymore - he takes a look around the common room. Nobody he knows is around, which is honestly fair. They’re all probably at work, in class, or studying in the library. Maybe sleeping if they pulled an all nighter like Dimitri had.

He takes the stairs to the third floor, and turns left down the hallway. He passes another, smaller common room. It too is empty aside from one or two students he doesn’t recognize.

Eventually, he finds himself standing in front of Sylvain’s door. Three weeks ago he stood here in crippling anxiety, desperately wishing to see his friend again. Now he’s just annoyed.

He knocks sharply, three pointed raps. “Sylvain.” He says.

The door opens quickly, much more so than he would have expected from Sylvain or Caspar. Which makes sense, because it isn’t either of them standing in front of him.

“Shut up or you’ll wake him,” Dorothea whispers. She’s glaring at him, her brown hair perfectly curled, and makeup impeccable. How the fuck does she have time for that in the mornings? 

“Wake him?” he asks, even more annoyed. Is Sylvain still fucking sleeping?

“No,” she snaps quietly “He’s been awake for hours, and he’s only just  _ actually _ fallen asleep recently, so it would be  _ lovely  _ if you didn’t wake him.”

Felix creases his eyebrows at that. “We are talking about Sylvain, right?” he had to clarify that this conversation wasn’t about Caspar or somebody.

She rolls her eyes. Dorothea doesn’t like him, he’s fully aware of that. Frankly, the feeling is mutual. She’s loud and obnoxious, too interested in gossip and drama for his tate. It makes it worse that she likely knows far too many stories about him from Sylvain, and he can’t imagine many of them were good. 

“No shit,” she says. “Who else would it be?”

“Is he sick?”

Dorothea leans against the door frame, scowling at him. “Not exactly. He\s running a slight fever, but that’s pretty normal.”

“Normal?” he asks, trying to keep his irritation down. It feels like pulling teeth to try and get information out of her. Is she being vague on purpose? 

She looks apprehensive at that. “Well, I mean yeah,” her tone has changed from harsh to something else. He can’t quite place it. “But you know, his shoulder.”

Felix  _ doesn’t _ know. Something Dorothea apparently picks up on.

“He hasn’t told you,” she looks surprised.

“Told me what?” his annoyance is flaring into full blown frustration.

She bites the inside of her mouth, and steps aside so that he can enter the dimly lit room.

The blinds are pulled closed, throwing everything into shadow, the only other light source is a lamp sitting on Sylvain’s desk. The crap that normally covers it has been relocated to a pile on the ground, and been replaced by what looks like various screenplays and notebooks. Dorothea’s work then.

Sylvain is asleep in his bed, half covered by a blanket. Even in the low light he can see how pale he looks, a sheen of sweat covering his forehead. He’s on his back, and one arm, his left, is resting across his torso. The other is thrown above his head. Even unconscious, his face is scrunched in pain.

What’s odd, however, is that his left arm, the one over his stomach, has a brace on the shoulder.

There’s bottles of prescription pills on his nightstand. Felix already knew he must take  _ some _ medication, with how he tried to fucking kill himself and all, but he didn’t expect to see four different ones. 

Dorothea stands back as he steps closing, reaching for one of the bottles. Oxycontin. One hell of a pain killer.

“What’s wrong with him?” he finally asks, voice just above a whisper. He’s only a little ashamed that he has to ask.

She moves back to his desk, sitting down in the chair and leaning back slightly. Even in the low light, she still looks amazing.

“His shoulder,” she replies. “he broke it pretty badly a couple years ago.”  _ When he tried to kill himself, _ is left unsaid, if Dorothea even knows. Although Felix would be extremely surprised if she didn’t. “It’s super fucked now. Some kind of post injury arthritis or something, and nerve damage. He has to wear a brace, and get regular cortisol shots in it to keep it from getting inflamed like this,” she shrugs. “I guess he hasn’t been.” She lets that sink in, as if it's his fault. Honestly, it probably is, not that he’d admit that to  _ her _ . “We’re debating on taking him to the hospital if it doesn’t get better, but they probably won’t do anything.”

“It’s bad enough he takes Oxycontin?” he asks, trying to gage just how badly this is.

Dorothea hums as she settles down to work again. “He doesn’t take it often. Only on really terrible days. Usually he just takes an  _ obscene _ amount of naproxen.”

Sylvain groans in his sleep, pained and followed by a short gasp. Dorothea frowns at him, but doesn’t move from where she’s sitting.

"Are you telling me," he says, watching his partner’s(?) sleeping form settle again, "that this idiot has chronic pain, and didn't say anything?"

Unsurprisingly, she laughs, "Are you surprised?"

"No," he replies with a sigh. "I'm really not."

He ends up sitting down on the chair he pulled over from Caspar’s desk (which is also extremely messy). He didn’t think he would stay, but Sylvain is making these small pained noises, and Felix doesn’t know what to do but sit next to him.

His shoulder is inflamed in a way that makes Felix only able to imagine how much it hurts. He finds himself wanting to comfort Sylvain, even in his unconscious state.

Dorothea has assured him that he’ll be awake in a couple hours, when the minimal relief he gets from the painkillers wears off. Perhaps he’ll be able to comfort him better than the rest of them have.

And so, Felix sits. He’s trying, and failing, to focus on the book he needs to read for his Applied Mythology course (he took it purely to annoy his father), when Dorothea mentions she has class in forty minutes.

He hears the silent question in her voice, asking if she needs to get somebody else to watch over Sylvain, or if he can.

Felix isn’t sure which answer he should give, unspoken as it is. On one hand, he’s annoyed she hasn’t come out and asked, but on the other, he’s coming to understand why they have somebody with him. Apparently when he’s in pain like this, Sylvain’s ability to focus on the world around him basically disappears. Between that, the need to stop him from taking an  _ entire bottle _ of painkillers (“Mercedes was terrified he was going to overdose the first time”), and wanting to make sure he doesn’t asphyxiate on his own vomit if he ends up getting sick, it’s just a good idea to have somebody there.

“I’ll stay,” he decides on saying, when the thought of somebody else watching over him wakes up some protective urge to defend him, to make sure he doesn’t get even more hurt.

Thinking about how much pain Sylvain is in, is always in Dorothea lovingly tells him, makes him feel ill. Why didn’t he just  _ tell _ him? To keep something like chronic pain a secret, especially where there are things that have to be done to avoid making it worse, is fucking stupid.

Then again, the extent of Sylvain’s fucking stupidity never ceases to amaze him. How somebody so fucking smart, no matter how much he tries to hide it, can be such an idiot is beyond him.

Dorothea gathers up her books and leaves, telling him to text Mercedes or Caspar if something changes. Annette or Linhardt if he can’t reach either of them.

At least she trusts him enough to leave him alone with Sylvain. Which is honestly better than he’d expected. An improvement. 

Its another half hour before Sylvain starts waking up.

He lets out a small moan of pain, his breathing is ragged and light, almost like he’s hyperventilating. His face is creased even more now than it was while he was asleep. It’s obvious he’s in extreme pain.

It reminds Felix of his own migraines, but worse.

“Sylvain.” he says quietly, although not softly. He isn’t Mercedes, and if he thought Sylvain would be able to retain any of it, he’d be yelling at him for being such a  _ fucking idiot. _

Sylvain groans again, eyes blinking open slowly. They’re glassy and unfocused, his pupils are dilated more than they should be, even in this dark room.

“Sylvain,” he says again, trying to pull his attention.

Sylvain makes a noise, and turns his head to look at him. “Fe?” he whispers after a moment, each word is laced with agony. It fucking hurts to hear it, although Felix would never admit that.

“Hey,” he tries to make his voice soft, more gentle. It doesn’t come naturally. 

“What are you-?” he doesn’t finish the question, opting instead to close his eyes and cringe as another desperate sound escapes him.

It makes Felix nauseous to hear.

“Can you sit up?”

Sylvain looks like he’s trying for a moment, before he lets out a breath he had apparently been holding. He shakes his head.

Of course he can’t, because why make anything easy?

Instead, Felix sits on the bed. He wraps an arm around Sylvain’s back, and pulls him up against him. He slips it behind so that Sylvain’s back can rest against his chest. He really is too warm, the fever must be his body’s reaction to the pain.

He takes the water bottle set aside for him, and holds it to Sylvain’s lips.

“Drink.”

He does what he’s told, and even manages to hold the bottle with his good arm. Felix grabs the pain killers. Dorothea already told him that Sylvain can take up to two if he’s still in a lot of pain, which he is. “Here, take these.”

Once again, Sylvain does so without complaint, which only serve to be even more concerning. 

He puts the bottle aside, and wraps his arms around Sylvain, letting the other’s head fall back against his collarbone.

“Hurts ‘Lix,” he mutters, quietly. It’s all so unlike the Sylvain he usually knows.

“I know,” he replies, hugging him close. “I know it does. Just breathe.”

They’re quiet, and Felix makes no move to let Sylvain go, not when he’s still in such obvious pain. Hopefully the medication starts working soon.

“Feels like ‘m dying,” the words are barely audible, but pleading and breathless nonetheless. 

Without even realizing it, Felix has a hand combing through Sylvain’s hair. “It’s okay,” he tries to calm him, “I’m here Sylvain. I’m here.” 

“Just want it to stop,” he’s crying, Felix realizes. He’s only barely aware of anything happening, and he’s crying. “‘Lix, make it stop.” He’s begging.

“It’s okay,” he tries to reassure him. “It’s okay.” He kissed the top of Sylvain’s head, more delicate than he’s used to, and keeps running a hand through his red hair. “Just rest Sylvain. Just rest.”

Eventually, Sylvain falls back into an uneasy sleep. He’s curled against Felix’s chest, fever radiating off his skin.

When he’s sure a slight movement won’t wake him, he grabs his phone off the chair he was sitting in, and shoots Mercedes a text.

To: Mercedes:  _ Sylvain woke up, not doing well. Asleep again.  _  
From: Mercedes:  _ How bad? _  
To: Mercedes:  _ Very. _

He puts his phone down when he doesn’t receive a reply right away, and goes back to running his left hand through Sylvain’s hair. His right is still busy anchoring Sylvain to him, avoiding touching his injured shoulder.

When Sylvain’s face cringes, and soft moans escape him, Felix makes sure to whisper quiet reassurances in his ear.

Mercedes opens the door an hour later, a large fabric... thing in her hand. 

She raises her eyebrows at him, but doesn’t comment on their position. Instead, she hands him the item, which turns out to feel like a bean bag of sorts, but larger. It’s also very cold.

“Spoke to Flayn, one of the nursing students, on my way over,” she says as she walks over. “Ideally I’d take him to the hospital at this point, but she said to keep up with ice packs first. See if it helps the swelling.” She sighs. “I’d love to use ice packs more, but we don’t have easy access to a freezer, so she lent me that. It’s full of grain and retains cold or heat.” 

He doesn’t need to be told what to do. The “bag” has some weight to it, and is pliable enough to be used on the injured shoulder. He really hopes it helps

“I made an appointment for him tomorrow,” Mercedes tells him, “since I doubted he’d be able to make one on his own. Hopefully we can avoid the ER tonight, he really doesn’t like hospitals.”

After spending so long in one, Felix  _ can’t  _ understand why.

It’s evening when Sylvain wakes up again, and this time Felix is dozing as well.

It’s the groan that pulls him from his cat like slumber.

“Sylvain?” he asks, voice groggy. The room is empty again, although he remembers Caspar dropping by briefly before heading to his partner’s dorm. “How are you feeling?”

Sylvain blinks, turning around a little. He cringes at the pain it causes in his shoulder. His eyes are clearer though.

“Felix?” he asks. His voice is still weak and exhausted, but not as distant as before, which Felix takes as a win.

Felix ignored the question that wasn’t really a question. Sylvain obviously needed a minute to process his surroundings. Instead, he reached for the water bottle - Caspar had filled it up before leaving - and the bottle of acetaminophen Mercedes had left.

“Take these,” Felix told him, putting the water next Sylvain’s good arm. He opened the bottle of medication with one hand (an impressive feat), and poured two pills into his hand, holding them to Sylvain.

The redhead tried to move his left arm, but quickly froze. Using his other, he took the pills from Felix and popped them in his mouth, before washing them down with water.

“What are you doing here?” Sylvain asks. He’s not looking at Felix anymore, instead speaking to the air in front of him. He feels tense.

“Taking care of you, obviously,” he says flatly. “Apparently somebody needs to, since you won’t do that on your own.” He gets the feeling Sylvain is about to speak, so he keeps speaking. “Mercedes made an appointment for a cortisol shot tomorrow, and I believe she has some choice words to say about you procrastinating it. I know  _ I  _ do.”

“Felix-” Sylvain begins in that tone of voice he always uses when he’s about to brush off their concerns. God knows he's done it enough as a teenager, and look how that turned out.

Felix holds him tighter, huffing out a breath of air. It moves the hair on Sylvain’s head. He scowls, even though he knows nobody can see him. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, more harshly than he probably should, but he’s  _ hurt. _ Sure, they aren’t dating exactly, but they were more than friends, at least he thought they were. The fact that Sylvain hid something so important from him makes him wonder.

Sylvain just shrugs with his right shoulder, not even trying to move the left again. “I don’t know. Figured wasn’t important,” he tries to defend.

Felix is having none of that. “Not important?” he repeats. “Of course it’s important Sylvain! You’re in  _ pain _ for God’s sake. And not just a little pain either.”

Sylvain just shrugs again, and Felix bites his tongue. Yelling at him won’t help, not with Sylvain still seems so fucking exhausted. He lets a breath out of his nose, and buries it into the red hair in front of him. “Just sleep. We’ll talk later.”

“Felix-” he starts, but it is clear how tired he is.

“Sleep,” Felix insists. 

Sylvain sighs, but does settle down, relaxing back into him. It’s a sign of how tired and sore he still must be, that within minutes, he’s asleep again.

* * *

When he wakes up the next morning, Sylvain is surprised a find an arm wrapped around his torso, hugging him close. There’s breath on the back of his neck, and he takes a moment to try and remember the name of the girl before he wakes her up.

It's in this weird state of half awareness that he remembers the events of the day before, as disjointed as they may be.

The arm around him tightens, and Sylvain supposes that the memory of Felix being there wasn’t some kind of fever dream, or pain induced hallucination. He isn’t sure whether or not he’s grateful for that.

He tries to move his shoulder, still in its brace, and finds that while it's still cripplingly sore, the pain has lessened a substantial amount. Hopefully he’ll be able to get by on minimal painkillers today.

Behind him, Felix shifts, just barely awake. If he stays quiet, maybe he’ll fall back asleep. Maybe he can postpone the inevitable conversation of why he didn’t tell Felix - Felix who cares for nothing but strength - that he’s broken. That not only has his mind been shattered time and time again, but his body never healed quite right either.

“I can practically hear you thinking,” Felix mutters, groggily, from his space behind Sylvain’s neck. “Go back to sleep.”

Some things never change, like grumpy morning Felix. Maybe if he bought him coffee, he’d be willing to forget yesterday ever happened.

Sylvain tries to shift, but sucks in a harsh breath when his shoulder seems to explode. He closes his eyes on instinct, and tries to bear with it until the wave passes.

“Breathe,” he hears Felix say, suddenly much more awake. “Just breathe.” There’s a hand in his hair. It’s a pleasant feeling, but odd. It can’t be Felix, he’d never be this affectionate, but who else would it be?

It takes a few minutes, but the flare of agony eventually does subside. 

“Mercedes made an appointment for you today. 2pm,” Felix tells him when he opens his eyes. “I don’t have class, so I’ll take you.”

Sylvain can’t read his face. Over the year, he’s gotten quite good at being able to tell what Felix and thinking or feeling, they weren’t apart that long, but currently he has no idea. It’s a little bit terrifying. 

“It’s okay,” he says, laying on his back. Felix is looming over him, scanning his face. He’s still in his grey undershirt, and jeans. “I can go on my own, it’s not far.”

Felix creases his eyebrows. “You think I’m just going to let you walk out there, alone, when you’re so vulnerable? That’s fucking stupid.”

“I-” he starts, dumbfounded. “What?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Felix snaps at him, “you’re hurt. What if it were to get bad? You’d be crippled, alone on a sidewalk somewhere, or on a bus. God forbid you try to drive. No, I’ll take you, and make sure you  _ actually _ get that treatment you were supposed to have gotten weeks ago, according to Dorothea.”

He honestly isn’t sure what to say to that.

Suddenly it hits him. “Fuck, we were supposed to meet yesterday, we’re we?”

Felix made a noise of agreement, but didn’t bother answering, as he lay back down next to him.

“I’m so sorry.”

He only received a scoff in reply. “Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not, I’m-”

“Yes, you are,” Felix tells him. “You’re injured, that isn’t your fault-”

“It kind of is.”

Felix ignores him. “You should have told me  _ before _ being in so much pain you were literally fucking incoherent.”

There’s flashes of Felix in his memory, of begging for the pain to stop. He can feel himself going red. 

“How much did you see?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“Enough.”

They lay in silence for awhile, his shoulder starting to ache more and more as time passes. 

“I’m sorry you had to see it,'' he says eventually, regretting every life decision that led to Felix witnessing those moments of pitiful weakness. 

An annoyed sigh escaped the man next to him. “Shut the fuck up,” he says. “I just wish you would have told me before that. How often have you been in pain around me, and not fucking said anything? Dorothea says you’re supposed to wear that brace more often than not, but I’ve never seen it. Have you been avoiding wearing it around me?”

Sylvain doesn’t want to answer. He doesn't want to admit to gritting his teeth through the movies they’ve watched, and taken pain killers in the bathroom. He doesn't know which answer is right, which one will keep Felix from being angry or disappointed, Which will keep him from leaving.

“Sylvain,” Felix says. “Calm down,” he takes a deep breath himself. “Just tell me. Is it really as bad as she said is it?”

He closes his eyes. He won’t cry over something stupid like this, but he’s already in pain and its so draining on his resilience. “Yeah,” he says, “it is.”

Felix ‘hmms’ and shifts. He presses a bottle of naproxen into his hands. Sylvain opens his eyes to see him holding a water bottle too. 

“Take them,” he orders. “But I swear to God if you ever take an entire bottle I will personally fucking kill you. I don’t care how much it hurts.”

Felix ends up helping him with the bottle, and pulling him up to take them without risk of choking. They sit like that, similar to the night before, for a time. Sylvain relaxes into Felix’s touch, despite himself.

“Thank you,” he whispered, content. 

He feels Felix rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Just, don;t pull this shit again. Go to the doctor before this happens. And,” he stops himself.

“And?” Sylvain prompts, curious.

Felix sighs. “And fucking talk to me next time. I don;t like seeing you in so much pain.”

“Aw Felix,” Sylvain says, taunting. “I didn't know you cared so much!”

“Yeah well, shut the fuck up. I may just change my mind.”


End file.
